


This Game of Cruelty

by anacondgenius



Series: Book of Sins [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Cannibalism, Cross-Over AU, M/M, Multi, Unknown Cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anacondgenius/pseuds/anacondgenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As crude as it was, it had to be done.</p>
<p>To preserve freshness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Game of Cruelty

Peter loved his profession.

He just dreaded the work. 

Do not misunderstand, however. It was just the hours and hours of having to listen to some of his less favorable clients moan and sob about the problems they faced everyday, having to pay him just to talk. 

His current client could be considered one of those people. This time, it was the immaculately dressed Mrs. Johnson, who appeared to be distressed about her cheating husband. 

Pathetic excuse, really. 

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed her poor attempt to seduce him. 

The middle woman sniffed into the tissues that Peter had offered to her, her raised arms pressing her breasts together which were half exposed from the low neckline of her shirt. She peaked up expectantly from beneath her thick eyelashes, which were obviously heavily laden with mascara. Frustrated to see Peter maintaining a face void of emotion, she restarted her charade of crying, only this time harder. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she cried, shedding false tears. When she busied herself with the task of wiping her non-existent emotions, she didn’t see Peter sneak a look at the large clock that hung behind her. 

Four more minutes. 

The middle-aged woman felt that she was losing her audience, instantly stopping her act. She dragged her eyes along the length of his suit with undisguised eyes when he crossed his legs. 

“Perhaps-“

Peter coughed lightly, stopping her in mid-sentence, raising a hand to adjust his tie. 

Mrs. Johnson leaned forward in what she thought was supposed to be seductive as a last resort. Peter had to clench his jaw to prevent him giving a face of disgust. 

“Ms. Johnson. We’ve discussed this previously in our last session.” Lacing his fingers together on the top of his knee, he leaned back into his chair. “It is against my policy to be engaged in relationships outside of my work with my clients.”

Mrs. Johnson pasted a look of surprise of her face, her eyebrows raised and her red lips pursed in an expression of irritation. She shredded the tissue between her fingers, avoiding her gaze at him. 

“I don’t know what you-,“ she stuttered, trying to recover from Peter’s response. Peter returned his gaze back at the clock.

Ah, her time was up.

Peter twisted his face into a smile he reserved mostly for clients who could not take a hint. It was a smile that seemed kind and understanding, but actually held the sharpness of a knife. 

He stood up, and slapped lightly on his suit jacket, removing imaginary dust. 

“However, despite the insinuations, I’m afraid our session is now over,” he said, quietly walking along the carpeted floor towards the door. Mrs. Johnson reluctantly followed, grabbing her purse with venom. Grasping the handle, he silently opened the door and stepped aside to let her through. 

“And please give my regards to your husband.”

 

\---

 

After his last client, Peter if not practically, ran to his car. 

He didn’t though, of course.

Once he had returned home, he quickly parked his car into his garage, and strode with purpose towards his house. 

Once he had locked his front door behind him, he couldn’t help but resist the urge to lick his lips at the thought of what awaited him. 

Today was especially hard today. He should have a treat. He deserved to have something a bit more special than the usual fare. 

Peter grinned. The thought of him being able to use the most extraordinary and rare ingredients to create a magnificent dish reserved only for him was always marvelous to him. 

His ingredients.

Walking with long strides, he breathed out slowly, shrugging off his jacket and carefully folding it onto the back of one of his dining room chairs before twisting off his tie. 

Tossing it aside, he made his way towards his kitchen. Making his way to the far most corner of the room amidst the chrome appliances, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of pleasure of the thought of his culinary talents disguising his secret. 

It was almost laughable at how easy it was. 

It was also incredibly sad.

Such as that time he had invited Sheriff Stilinski over to enjoy a home cooked meal. Peter had spent the evening listening to the older man grieve of how his son, Stiles, had recently gone missing. He would talk how his wonderful, smart son had usually cooked for the both of them when his wife passed away from cancer.

He didn’t particularly care what the Sheriff had said that night.

Peter had been too focused on the meal he was feeding his guest, a hand covering his smile. 

Peter grunted, prying his fingers under a heavy floor tile that revealed a hidden trapdoor. As medieval and burdensome as a trapdoor was, it served its purposes perfectly for him. 

He had always appreciated the classics.

He gripped the cool metal handle of the trapdoor and lifted the heavy wood, carefully propping it against the wall. 

A stone stairway led into darkness, which he slowly and carefully descended. Reaching above his head, Peter waved his hand around until he located the thin pull switch and tugged on it. White light filled the chilled room. 

The first thing he sees is pale skin. It was so pale, so beautiful, that it was almost translucent. The boy that was lying down on the bloodied operation table was barely clinging onto life, bandaged stumps where both his arm and leg once were staining the white strips pink. His remaining limbs were shackled to chains welded to the table slab. 

As crude as it was, it had to be done.

He quietly steps forward and walks carefully around several IV drips, until he was standing next to the table. Upon closer inspection, he notices that his boy was in a troubled sleep. His breathing was labored, and there was cold sweat creased in the dark circles around his eyes. 

Time to wake him up.

“Hello,” he barely whispered, leaning against the table to slowly press his lips into a sweaty temple. “Did you miss me?” Peter smiled serenely as a weak gasp was heard, the pale form beneath him jerking awake. A look of faint panic lingered behind glazed eyes, the boy flinching when Peter reached out to stroke damp hair.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay. It’s just me.”

Panic was quickly replaced with fury, but the boy was too weak to move to make much of an effect. He shifted away from Peter’s hand, or as much as the chains would allow. 

“D-don’t fucking touch me,” the boy croaked out, his voice raspy. He tried to shy away from wandering hands. He choked when fingers ghosted lightly over the dusting of hair that trailed toward his groin. He sobbed pitifully. “Please, don’t-“

Peter chuckled, a look that was almost akin to fondness on his face. He trailed a hand from his stomach until it was cradled gently over the wound where one of Stile’s legs used to be. He kept a constant pressure there not to cause pain, but to just let the boy know that he was touching him.

That he was in control. 

“You’re begging now?” He raised one of his hands to grip his boy’s chin, forcing him to look him in the eye. 

“Don’t you think it’s time to give yourself up?” Peter squeezed the stump gently, but even that light touch was enough to warrant a cry from the boy, tears starting to drip silently down his pale face.

Peter wanted to feel sorry, for not giving the boy at least some medication to ease the pain. But he also knew that the painkillers would taint his lovely flesh and interfere with the boy’s unique taste. 

So Peter only gives him cocktails of well-needed nutrients and blood transfusions. 

He also gives him plenty of affection. 

Releasing his grip on the boy’s chin, Peter slowly walked towards the end of table, his hand a constant pressure on his shackled ankle. 

Suddenly, Peter’s grip turned hard, and the older man dragged the boy’s body downwards until his chained arm was above his head and his lower body threatening to fall over the edge of the table. Crying out from the sudden movement, the boy tried in fruitless movements to get away from the body that was crowding up against him, but the chains pulled taunt. Peter leaned down to nose at the pale throat beneath him, licking up salt and biting into collarbones. 

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Peter moaned. Dipping his head, he dragged his tongue slowly on top of a nipple, the point of his teeth catching sharply on the edge. He laved the soft chest with an almost loving affection. 

“Stop-,” the boy pleaded, but his voice had grown weaker, less fierce than before. “God, just stop-.”

Ah, this was the part that Peter enjoyed the most. 

When hope is crushed, over and over again. Peter kindly smiled down at him, a flash of pity almost visible in the gleam of his eyes.

“Now why would I want to do that?”

The boy’s breath hitched harshly when Peter reached up to lick at his fingers, spit hanging in ropes when he removed them from his mouth. Moving forward, he traced his fingers along the rim of the boy’s entrance, careful to lubricate it enough, before pressing inside. 

It was a tight fit at first, but Peter moved on, forcing his fingers inside until the walls clenching around his digits had relaxed. Had given up. 

He continued his ministrations. 

Peter gripped the boy’s remaining leg and positioned it over his shoulder, fingers digging into light flesh. His other hand had continued to thrust his fingers into the tight entrance, smoothing his digits along the surface of his prostate. The boy arched his back into an almost painful position, cold sweat turning warmer as he tried to stifle his whines, his cock growing quickly despite the pain. His eyes were glazed in a medley of pleasure, pain and defeat as he watched Peter twist his fingers inside him. 

“Ah-,”

“And don’t forget,” Peter breathed, before descending down on the erect cock in front of him, his mouth pursing around the warm flesh. He had to hold onto slender hips, which were jerking shakily upwards in weak thrusts. Moving his lips up and down, as well as the combined effort of his twisting fingers inside the loosened entrance, he didn’t have to wait long before the boy gave out a weak whimper and was coming into his mouth. 

Spurts of come coated the inside of his mouth with a salty but delicious flavor. A unique side dish to accompany along side the main course. He swallowed that delicious taste, watching as his boy slowly passes out from all the rigorous movement. Releasing his mouth from the boy’s softening erection, he moved his face to the side to press his lips into his remaining pale thigh, kissing it gently, softly.

“That you’re mine.”

 

\---

 

Peter was satisfied that night. 

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, cleaning up his dishes as he went back into his kitchen. Taking out his phone from his pocket, he looked through his list of speed dial numbers before pressing a button. 

While waiting, he flicked his wrists together to expertly grind one of his knives against the sharpening blade. Continuing his actions, he cradled his phone between his ear and shoulder, waiting for an answer. After a few dial tones, he smiled when he heard a gruff voice.

“Peter.”

“Hello, Derek. How is my favorite nephew?”

“What do you want, Peter? I’m busy.”

“Yes, I know. Tell me, how is the search?” 

“…”

“Well, besides the point. I was calling to ask whether you would want to join me at my house for dinner this week,” Peter stopped his ministrations of his knives to pause, shifting his eyes towards the corner of his kitchen. 

“I have a new recipe, and I would love it if you would be able to try it…”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Class Actress/Journal of Ardency 
> 
> I am so sorry. 
> 
> I was scrolling through tumblr before I saw a sterek post about amputations. 
> 
> And I also was watching Hannibal... so you know how that works out.


End file.
